The North, Winterfell. The banners of the black-and-gold stag and the gray-and-white direwolf flew side by side.
Eddard Stark saw the change in the king at a glance and could not help but sigh. "Time changes everything."
Fifteen years ago, when stag and wolf had fought shoulder to shoulder for the Iron Throne, the Great Lord of Storm's End had been clean-shaven, clear-eyed, and powerfully built, the sort of man young maidens dreamed of. Six feet five inches tall, he had stood like a tower above the crowd.
Now, even compared to nine years ago, when they crushed King Balon, Robert had put on at least eight stone. His girth rivaled his height. The king had always loved his pleasures and never denied himself.
A thick, wiry black beard hid his double chin, but nothing could conceal the swell of his belly or the dark hollows beneath his eyes.
Great Lord Ned knelt in the snow and kissed the ring on the queen's hand. Robert, meanwhile, embraced Catelyn as though she were a long-lost sister.
Then the children of the wolf and the stag were brought forward. After formal introductions, they earned nods of approval from both parents.
Lady Catelyn felt a quiet joy. Born in the warmer lands of Riverrun, she had always imagined her daughters finding worthy matches in the south. The thought filled her heart with pleasant hopes. At least in appearance, the king's "children" were comely and well-mannered.
Eddard, however, felt far less warmth toward the idea of a marriage alliance. People said the Old Gods watched over the Starks, yet the warm south was not their home, and the Old Gods held little power there. To Eddard, the south meant bitterness and grief.
Sansa felt as if she could hardly breathe. The tall, handsome Prince was just as she had imagined in her girlish dreams. She did not notice the way Joffrey's lips curled slightly upward, the faint disdain in his expression as he looked upon the North.
The formal courtesies had barely ended when Robert said, "Eddard, take me down to your crypt. I would pay my respects." That was what Eddard loved about him. After all these years, he still had not forgotten Lyanna.
"Everyone has been riding since dawn. They're cold and weary. We should rest first. The dead are in no hurry," Cersei suggested.
Robert answered her with a cold look.
Her twin brother Jaime quietly took her hand, and she held her tongue.
The spiral stair down to the crypt was narrow. Eddard carried the lamp for the king, who had grown so stout he was nearly unrecognizable.
As they descended, Robert grumbled, "I thought we'd never reach Winterfell. Living so long in the south, hearing people talk about my Seven Kingdoms, it's easy to forget your lands are almost as vast as the other six put together."
"Your Grace, I trust the journey was pleasant?"
Robert snorted. "Nothing but swamps, woods, and fields along the way. After we passed the Neck, there wasn't a decent inn to be found. I've never seen such endless, frozen wilderness. Where do your people hide?"
"Too shy to show themselves, perhaps," Eddard replied lightly. A chill rose from the depths of the crypt, like the cold breath of the earth itself. "In the North, a king is not a common sight."
They talked as they walked. Eddard could not help but notice the toll years of indulgence had taken on Robert. By the time they reached the foot of the stairs and stepped into the long darkness, the king was breathing hard, his face flushed red in the lamplight.
Eddard led the way between the stone pillars. The king followed in silence, shivering in the underground cold.
The Stark crypts were all of a piece. The dead of Winterfell sat upright on stone thrones set between the pillars, their backs to the walls, with the stone coffins that held their remains resting behind them. By tradition, each statue of a Lord of Winterfell bore an iron longsword across its lap, meant to keep vengeful spirits sealed within the tomb.
"Here," Eddard said to the king.
They moved through the damp, bitter cold while the lords of Winterfell seemed to watch them from their carved seats, their stone faces shaped in the likeness of the men they had been in life. Great direwolves of stone lay curled at their feet.
Robert nodded without a word, then went down to one knee and bowed his head. Before him were three stone coffins. Great Lord Rickard lay in the middle, long-faced and severe. On either side were his children, his heir Brandon, and his daughter Lyanna.
This should have been Brandon's, Eddard thought. His brother had been the heir, the firstborn, the leader. Instead he had died not long before his wedding to Catelyn.
And Lyanna only hurt worse. She had been sixteen when she left them. Robert had loved her fiercely, more fiercely than ever, and they had been meant to marry.
After a long silence, Robert spoke. "She was far prettier than this."
His gaze clung to the cold stone face as though sheer longing could warm it back to life. It could not. When he rose, his bulk made his footing uncertain.
"Damn it, Eddard. Did you truly have to bury her in a place like this?" His voice rasped with old pain. "She shouldn't be down here in the dark."
"She was of House Stark of Winterfell," Eddard said evenly. "She belongs here."
Still Robert could not let go. In his mind, she ought to have been laid on some green hill with fair views, an orchard planted above her grave.
You never knew her, Eddard thought. Lyanna's interest in Robert had never matched his in her. She had told Eddard once that no matter how much Robert claimed to love her, it would not stop him from straying after they wed.
"I swore I'd kill Rhaegar for her," Robert said, his fingers moving over the rough stone. Lyanna's face was cold, yet his touch was strangely gentle.
"You did kill him."
"Only once." Bitterness and fury roughened the words. "Every night in my dreams, I kill him again."
That was the king. Willful. Wrapped up in himself. Even when Eddard urged him, he would not bend for Cersei, not even enough to leave this place sooner.
"Tell me about that child," Eddard said. "Even in the North we've heard of the war across the Narrow Sea."
"A child. A bit older than Joffrey…" Robert muttered. "You know me. I couldn't tell you how many women I've had. As for children, I remember even less. But maybe. Maybe there was such a child. Mother could've been a whore, could've been some serving girl. Any of it's possible."
Eddard said nothing. Perhaps that, too, was simply Robert's way.
"Don't look at me like that. A bastard is a mistake any man might make. You've got them in your own house, friend. I just never thought my own payment would come due."
"You know those children. Cersei never wanted them anywhere near court." Robert shook his head. "Maybe I should've at least given them some coin back then."
After Joffrey's cat-killing business, the king had once considered bringing Mya into the palace, but Cersei had stopped it.
"Then what now?" Eddard asked.
"I think we fight again. Take up arms like we did nine years ago." Robert let out a long breath. "Gods, what a vile thing, to be called a kinslayer."
"Is there no other way?" Eddard pressed.
"What other way? You want me to close my eyes and pretend it isn't there? That's what you and Jon talked me into before, telling me I ought not harm children." Robert's mouth twisted, sour with it. "Let a Baratheon traitor and a dragon's bastard breed a whole clutch of heirs, and every would-be man of ambition will rally to their banners and come at me."
"I can't leave this mess for Joffrey. It's easier to rise against a brother than against your own father," Robert said, half to himself.
"Is it truly so urgent?" Eddard asked.
"Myr and the Tyrosh aren't short of gold, and they have fleets. Before, all they lacked was an army that could really fight. Now it seems they've even fixed that." Robert laid it out bluntly.
"Then it seems we must light the fires of war again," Eddard said, the words tasting like ash.
"And the Great Lord of the Eyrie is sickly, and only six. You know your nephew." Robert's voice softened, earnest in a way it rarely was. "I need you, my old friend…"